Tales of A Prince
by Merry Sioux
Summary: When you're reborn in the Yu-Gi-Oh world, specifically in Ancient Egypt, there's not much to do. He misses movies, and TV, and paperback books, and internet. He didn't know when he became a storyteller of Disney, or Marvel, or any fictional works from his past life. But his two friends enjoyed it, and he felt his homesickness ebb away, so why stop? Side stories of Rewind and Play.
1. The Green Witch

_AN: A drabble of my other fic, Rewind. I'm a bit unmotivated to do my school work, so I decided to write something. Maybe I'll write more in the future, who knows?_

* * *

If there was one thing his son never ran out of, it was stories and songs.

He could tell tales of magic, adventure, and action that never failed to make children sit still and be quiet. He could weave characters in different colors. People with strange backgrounds and stranger circumstances. Creatures that were more interesting and terrifying than the purest and vilest ka anyone has seen. Places that sounded impossible, even with magic. A kingdom underwater, an island that could fly, a ship that could carry more people in his kingdom and could venture past the sun.

If he's not telling a story, then he's singing a song. In that strange language he had slowly deciphered as his son grew. In tunes and melodies that were different than the music played in festivals or in court. In beats that were alien to him. His son was often regarded as a quiet and reserved child. But he sang and told tales endlessly when around his two childhood friends.

"I still don't understand, why did nobody like her?" Mana asked, leaning forward as his son was telling her another story. Mahad was nearby, reading a scroll, but he knew the young priest was also listening in. If the occasional pause and looking at their direction was any indication. "She sounded a lot like master! Really smart and powerful, and a caring big sister!"

His son never ran out of stories, always willing to tell tales to Mana when she asked. And he never hesitates to sing when she demands it. Mahad never asks, but he often sees his son humming a soothing melody beside him whenever the priest is in his more somber moods. The two of them were probably the only people with the privilege to listen to all his fantastical tales and songs whenever they wanted.

"She does, doesn't she?" his son mused, leaning against the column. Mahad twitched. "It's because her skin is green."

"That's stupid," Mana frowned.

"People can be stupid," he shrugged. "Her skin could have been black and she'd still be hated."

"Why?" she asked, absolutely confused. "She's done nothing wrong, everybody else was just mean to her! Even that Galinda!"

"In general, not many like different… it's hard to understand different, so they shun it instead," he explained. "They think that if they push it away, if they ignore it hard enough, it will disappear."

"That's stupid and lazy," she huffed. "If master's skin was green, I would still like him."

"You still liked me when the prince turned my skin blue," Mahad commented dryly, his son looking at him with an innocent confused look. Mahad just raised his eyebrow. It always fascinated him how different his demeanor was when around his son and Mana. Less polite and more blunt, less careful about his words and actions. More relaxed. He wonders if he would still remain that way once his son will be pharaoh. "But I'm very glad you would like me in three colors. Thank you, Mana."

"I would like you too," his son piped in. Mahad muttered something under his breath, and given the pout his son was making and the snickers Mana was failing to control, he was heard. "That's rude."

"Turning people's skin blue is rude, my prince."

"I didn't mean to!" his son defended. "It wasn't supposed to do that, and I wasn't aiming at you."

Mahad gave him an unimpressed look.

"I was aiming at the statue."

Completely unimpressed.

"I, err, was trying to clean it?"

Unimpressed mixed with pity, it was rather insulting at this point. His son must have thought the same thing, as he pouted harder and looked away. Sulking.

"You really are Elphaba," he huffed.

"I wasn't the one defying gravity over the palace roof, my prince."

" _That was only once!_ "


	2. Dante's New Circle And Some Blue Lotus

_AN: Inspired by several writing prompts in a Tumblr blog I found:_ _unblockingwritersblock._

* * *

"Dante must have missed a level or two because this," the prince emphasized what he was talking about by kicking him very hard. The people in the room winced as the prince aimed precisely on a critical area. The pained howl was probably heard by everyone in the palace. "Useless piece of shit managed to create another circle of torture."

"… Who's Dante?" one of the acolytes whispered, her companion shrugged. The prince must have heard them, because he turned to their direction and gave a sardonic smile.

"He's a character from a story," he explained, walking around the room and surveying the damage the priest crumpled on the floor had done. He frowned as he skimmed the messy notes on the man's desk. He let out a loud tsk as he poke and prodded the piles of scrolls and alchemy instruments on the floor. Some of them were stained with wine (and perhaps sauces from last night's roasted pig). "A man who journeyed through hell, a place where sinners are punished for all eternity— _Seth's balls, even my father isn't this much of a slob._ "

Another acolyte winced as a rat jumped out of a pot and scurried away, passing between the prince's legs.

"There were nine levels of hell, each representing the major sin a person has committed," he continued, as if a rodent didn't pass by his feet. He took one peek at the pot and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Stagnancy, lust, greed, anger, violence, fraud, and treachery. We just discovered the tenth one: Good-for-nothingness."

On cue, one of the wooden shelves trembled and broke down, and with it, the numerous papyrus, jars of ink, several wineskins, and a ridiculous amount of pouches filled with dried blue lotus flowers. The prince's feet and ankles were stained with ink and alcohol, and some of the shriveled petals stuck on his clothes. He looked down at the current mess that was added to the nightmare of a room. He stared at it for a few seconds, then looked up and sighed.

Never had the servants been glad that the pharaoh and his son were known to be patient and benevolent compared to other kings, or other priests. It could have been High Priest Aknadin or High Priest Seth who found this mess. And there would have been a lot more crying and blubbering.

As it was, it was only the priest on the floor doing all the sobbing. Everyone in the room was just holding their breaths, wondering how long the young prince's patience will last.

"I am five minutes away from setting this man on fire," he announced cheerfully. "It's bad enough he nearly caused a declaration of war because of his stupid flabby fat mouth, but now I find out his room is a warzone in itself. How did this idiot get appointed as a priest?"

They asked the same question every time they met the man, but nobody had the high status to say it out loud without repercussions. They were glad the prince finally pointed it out, rather bluntly.

"How much blue lotus is in here?" he asked in disbelief, finding a trunk filled with the flowers, some more wine, and a bit of papyrus with smudged ink. "He's got enough to fly up and boldly go where no man has gone before! No need to beam me up, I'd be higher than a kite with all this!"

The prince always has very interesting phrases when he's angry.


	3. Don't Marry An Evil Stepmother, Please

_AN: Decided to call Ancient Egypt, "Egypt" instead of "Kemet"._ _Right okay, some announcements about my other stories. The Gamer is a bit of a pain to write and keep track of, what with the game elements, but it's still a thing. Play is also still a thing, and I've been wanting to finish the next chapter asap, but idk I'm going through a 'crap-I'm-an-adult' crisis to concentrate on it fully. Also, I'm still not done with my thesis. In general, it's been hard for me to get motivation in anything, but I promise you guys that I'll try!_

* * *

"I wouldn't mind if you married again," his son stated, violet red eyes staring up at him. Aknamkanon knew most of his priests found Atem's eyes eerie—the rare color he inherited from his mother plus the depth of intelligence and understanding in his eyes have made them a formidable weapon for _staring down_ at people. Despite his age and small stature. He had seen veteran soldiers back away from his child when they thought he was angry, his eyes always shining with something intense and fierce.

Aknamkanon found it cute, especially when his son scrunched up his tiny nose and puffed out his chubby cheeks when he was thinking particularly hard. It wasn't that Atem was always angry, it was that he always looked… extremely determined in every single thing that he did. Like he was going out to kill their kingdom's enemies with as much dignity and nobility as possible while using only his sandals as a weapon. And his eyes told everyone that he'd succeed, laughing while standing on their burning corpses.

(in reality, that was Atem trying to gather courage to talk, his cute little son was painfully shy—despite his eloquence when dressing down men twice his age—and it took most of his willpower to have a conversation with new people)

Atem's mother always looked angry as well, when in reality that was just the way she looked like. She had always been passionate in everything she did, and it shined in her eyes. Passionately happy, passionately angry, passionately confused, and she had even succeeded with looking _passionately calm_. Seeing her with a neutral expression, her eyes (the same shade as her son, she would have adored him) devoid of the burning fire that was often mistaken for rage, was a more likely sign that something was wrong.

(she was never shy or bashful, his son unfortunately got that from him)

"Oh?" he raised his eyebrow at his son's words.

"Yes, I don't mind if you started courting someone," Atem nodded, looking adorably determined with whatever self-proclaimed mission he had in his mind. "As long as you don't marry an evil stepmother."

"I—evil stepmother?" he repeated, making sure he heard that right.

"Like she wouldn't force me to do extreme labor in an attempt to abuse my body and make me ugly, or leave me stranded in the desert where I had to use glittering stones or breadcrumbs to find my way home," his son elaborated. He wondered if Atem said peculiar things to see the looks of confusion and bewilderment in people's faces, or to test people who he deemed worthy of his company. He suspected it was both, as he had seen amusement in his eyes whenever he was met with confusion and floundering, or pleasant surprise when a rare soldier or servant would give back an unflappable reply. "Or feed me poisoned fruit because I was prettier than her."

"… Prettier than you."

" _Papa_ , I'm very pretty, you can't deny it," his son intoned seriously, like he was telling him a very important fact of life. "I may not be the fairest of them all because—y'know, skin color—but I'm prettier than most princesses on a good day."

Aknamkanon snorted. He wasn't wrong, minus his skin and his short haircut, Atem was the carbon copy of his mother when she was a child. And she had been a very pretty child (who grew to be a very beautiful woman), looking more like a delicate life-sized doll than a rude girl who had no qualms in pushing the crowned prince on mud (it was love at first sight as he stared up at the foreigner snarling at him… for one of them anyways).

"Careful, you're reminding me of that Greek story I heard a week ago—Narcissus and Echo, if I recall," Aknamkanon said dryly, Atem gave him an innocent clueless look. Cheeky little brat. He chuckled, bending down to ruffle his son's hair. "I promise you that any future wife I have will not try to kill you, make you a slave, or feed you questionably edible food."

When he thinks about it, those situations are very possible with Atem and any wife he (might) could have. Especially if Atem had siblings. He was a prince after all, a potential target for anyone who wanted power or was against his rule. Assassinations were (sadly) common in their family history. Mothers wanting their sons to be the next in line of kingship, fathers _not_ wanting their children to be next in line, enemies plotting and planning. Politics was a bloody sport, perhaps even dirtier than actual war and battle.

Maybe staying a widower would be a safer choice for everyone involved.

"… You have that look, _papa_. Stop it," Atem ordered, hands on his hips. "Whatever you're thinking is silly and no."

"No isn't a valid argument, Atem."

"You never say that to the prissy ambassadors and visitors."

'That's because they don't have half your intellect to understand what a 'valid argument' even means,' Aknamkanon thought but didn't say out loud. He was a grown man, a mature king, and he would not use insults his eight year old son liked to use. No matter how true they were. "What brought this on anyways?"

His son raised his eyebrow to show that his attempt to change the subject was noticed, but he replied anyways. "Just that—if you ever found someone you liked… I wanted you to know that I wouldn't mind."

Aknamkanon gave him a look. "Were you listening to my priests' complaining again? You know it's wrong to eavesdrop on their meetings."

"I was just passing by, not my fault that they talk so loud, they were whining about how you weren't married with some princesses and making back-up heirs in case the loony prince got an early start in the afterlife," Atem said, shrugging. Aknamkanon winced at his wording. "You'd think these super secret official meetings would be more secretive. It just got me thinking, I guess? Why aren't you married with other women, _papa_? I know grandfather was, mostly for politicky stuff."

"Politicky stuff, how I wish he were alive now just to hear you," Aknamkanon snorted. Unlike most countries, his people were more into being in a relationship with one partner. Multiple lovers, while not unheard of, was very rare. Royalty was a different story though, one of the easiest and quickest ways to gain alliances was through marriage. And as king, alliances were often a good thing. He was fortunate to marry out of love instead of duty, and he supposed he was uncomfortable to be with someone that didn't meet that standard. "I haven't found anyone I felt I would want to be with, not since your mother."

And there was a reason why he and Aknadin were the only living sons of the previous king. 'Politicky stuff' sometimes came in the form of scheming women not above committing infanticide. If there was one thing their father taught them, it's that marrying someone who didn't at least tolerate you was an overall horrible idea.

"I don't expect you to feel the same things you felt with _mama_ , she was an awesome lady. Nobody can top her," Atem said. "But if ever you do like someone, at least enough to want to marry her (or him, I don't really care), I wouldn't mind. I'll be _cool_ with the whole _trope_ of _Parent with New Paramour_ shoved at me, as long as the _trope_ doesn't include an evil step-parent and me the poor _Cinderella_."

"… I will pretend I understood your last words."

Atem opened his mouth to explain.

"No, you nearly gave Aknadin a reason to murder Shimon after the last thing you tried to explain," Aknamkanon cut off, his son closed his mouth with an audibly snap. "Your gift of knowledge and foresight is something you have to use wisely, I told you any careless sharing would have dire consequences."

"Pretty sure that doesn't include my explanation of _DILF,_ " Atem snickered. "Which you totally are."

"Since I know what that means, I would rather you not say that."

"I suppose it could be worse. I'm not sure if it's happened or not, but there is one king who would have seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines," his son mused. Aknamkanon choked at those numbers. "I mean, not that I say you couldn't have that many, as long as you love them and they're not evil stepmothers out to murder me and feed my corpse to you."

"Seven hundred-!"

"I wouldn't mind," Atem assured, which—in retrospect—wasn't assuring to his father at all, because seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines. "As long as it made you happy and doesn't kill me."

"Well, I'll be sure that all of my possible theoretical one thousand lovers will adore you," Aknamkanon said tiredly. His son. Adorable and small and so much like his mother. Including the headache part. "Now, shall we continue with our boat trip or are there any more… heartfelt thoughts you wish to share?"

"Nah, I'm _cool_."

He still didn't know what that meant.

* * *

 _AN: Aknamkanon has an idea on Atem's knowledge, but he sees it as more of knowing future events than "hey I'm from an alternate dimension where everything here was a TV show". How did they find out? Maybe I'll add it someday. It's a secret between him and his high priests, everyone else just think Atem's plain weird. The kid likes pulling out modern references because he thinks it's hilarious and his reputation as a loony prince makes people underestimate him._

 **Evil stepmothers** – from a few fairytales, take a guess on which ones I mentioned.

 **Narcissus and Echo** – from a Greek myth (or Roman? Not too sure). Long story short, Narcissus was a very hot dude. One day he saw his reflection in the water and thought "damn who is that hot thang" and fell in love with himself. He died by doing nothing but staring at his gorgeous reflection for days.

 **700 wives and 300 concubines** – is ironically not the wisest decision King Solomon ever made, in my opinion. A story from the Old Testament Bible, King Solomon was given the gift of wisdom by God in a dream. At some point, God told him not to get foreign wives as they'd bring in their religions and beliefs, but Solomon decided to screw that and get hundreds of foreign women to screw. God was mad, because he had one job and did the opposite of that 1,000 times.


	4. 100 Songs Can Give You A Godly Voice?

_AN: Did this during midnight, will probably edited tomorrow. Anyways, a little reveal on Atem's way of spellcasting and speech in Play I guess._

 _I'm done with my academics at least, but no free time for me sadly. I got a job (yay?) and I'm still adjusting to its schedule. But hopefully it'll be a great job._

* * *

"You write music weirdly," Mana commented, peeking over her friend's shoulder. She observed how he drew strange shapes consisting of black ovals and lines, sometimes he would add the letters of the alien language he had taught her long ago. She couldn't understand them, much to her annoyance. "It looks boring."

It was nothing like the colorful dynamic circles she was familiar with. Most music sheets were like pretty artwork, filled with brightly painted dots of different sizes. The intensity of color and the shape of the circle signifying a certain sound.

This was like all the pigments were sucked out of it and were replaced by thorns.

Atem huffed, placing down his reed brush and flicking Mana's forehead with his finger. "If you're bored looking at it then stop reading over my shoulder," he said. "Actually, stop reading over my shoulder in general, it's an invasion of privacy."

Mana rubbed her forehead and looked at the (boring) music sheet her prince was writing. It was all in one color, filled with black dots with antennae swimming along five long lines. The only pretty thing was the loopy flower symbol at the start of each five lines. "You know how to write music normally, why do you do it like this?"

"It's less time-consuming, considering I only need one color," Atem explained with the air of having said this several times, he got his reed brush and continued writing. "And I can add more things to it, since there aren't any gigantic circles in the way."

"But it looks so _dull!_ " Mana despaired, because music was supposed to be colorful and vibrant. "I bet nobody can read it, they'd fall asleep trying."

"Mahad knows how," Atem pointed out, quirking an eyebrow. "I tried teaching you, but you didn't like it."

"Because it's boring!"

Atem shrugged. "I'm used to it," he admitted. The ancient (or present, technically) way of writing music notations was something odd for him, but he learned. He understood Mana's preference to it, even Mahad liked reading music sheets the local way. The circles and colors could convey more accurate tones and emotions than a series of black and white notes in a scale. But it was a tedious thing to make, and Atem just wasn't used to measuring pitches the Ancient Egyptian way. He preferred A-B-C or Do-Re-Mi better.

"I find it frustrating to no end that you have such a pretty voice," Mana complained, not noticing the way her friend blushed at that. "And can make pretty songs but you write them in such a _butt-fucking-ugly way,_ " she growled the last words in English.

"Hey, that's a little harsh," Atem protested, he then tilted his head. "My voice is pretty?"

Mana gave him a look of pure judgment over his intelligence.

"It's not like people compliment me on that," he defended, which was true. Most people sang odes about his leadership and looks, it was borderline creepy at times – considering he'd only been king for half a year, and also he was thirteen. Adults complimenting his lovely lips and beautiful thighs in poetry was just gross. "Nobody says anything about my singing."

"That's because you're a _fucking pussy_ when singing with an audience," Mana deadpanned, Atem sputtered.

"Where did you learn that?" he demanded, standing up and placing his hands on his hips. "Because I don't remember teaching that to you."

"Master has a broad vocabulary."

Oh, right, he did tend to be looser with his language around the older man. And contrary to popular belief, Mahad could be explosive in words when he was pushed too far. "Don't ever say that, or I'll feed you that bitter herbal soup Meryet used to give you when you said bad words," he scolded.

"There are only two people who know what that means," Mana complained.

"Yes, well, a little girl saying _pussy_ or any vulgarity is unnerving," he said firmly. "You can swear with your heart's content once you're an adult."

Mana brightened up with that.

Atem felt like he changed canon in an insignificant, yet amusing, way.

"So," he started, wanting to change the subject before the girl could find a way to allow her to swear anytime she wanted. "My voice is pretty?"

"Who's voice is pretty?" a voice asked, and the two turned to find a familiar magician walking in the room. "Do you mean you, my lord?"

"Do you two know the meaning of personal space? Politeness? Indicating you're going to barge in as you please? Anything?" Atem complained, this was his study, they couldn't just waltz in! Actually, come to think of it, he was the goddamn pharaoh, they couldn't just waltz in either way! "And wasn't that door locked? Mana, did you magically unlock it? What the hell, why?"

"Yes, the prince's voice is pretty," Mana replied, ignoring her friend's whines.

"That makes sense," Mahad nodded seriously, and Atem twitched, they were ignoring his legitimate complaints. "If he wasn't bashful with performing, then I'm sure people would appreciate his singing."

That was more polite than saying he was a pussy in performing.

Also, what? His singing couldn't be that good, he only got enough music lessons to not warble off key and figure out how to slowly sing a song. In both lives.

"You make it sound like I'm phenomenal in it," he huffed, looking away. "While I know I'm decent, I'm sure the palace musicians and singers are better at it."

They were professionals after all.

There was a long silence, and Atem twitched as both his childhood friends said nothing. He slowly looked back and blushed at the two magicians looking at him in pure disbelief. "What?! You can't be serious!" he sputtered. "I am not better than _professional singers_ , they practice more than me, why-"

"No they don't," Mana said quietly, realizing something. The prince was truly clueless about his skill. "You like singing for as long as I can remember," she continued. "You always sing in that language."

"I don't-… oh," Atem felt his whole body heat up. He did sing songs from his past life, he had done it as a kid so he wouldn't forget. Then it just became a habit. But he'd always been conscious at being seen singing a strange song in a strange language, so he always did it when he was alone. "Oh, right… I guess I do."

Or when he was with his father and his two friends.

"I'm pretty sure I was horrible in it," he said, remembering himself butchering Disney songs a lot. High pitched voice, subpar singing, and songs that demanded high and long notes? Not the best combination.

"You were, Mana was too young to remember, but I wasn't," Mahad snorted. "You got better, incredibly so," he raised an eyebrow at his prince's disbelief. "You never noticed, didn't you?"

"Not… not really," he said. This was a surprise for him, he had never been known for music in his past life. When she was still alive, she had no talent or interest with it beyond humming songs when it suited her fancy.

"You sang so many things every day, I would be more surprised if nothing changed," Mahad tilted his head. "It got to the point that even the way you spoke sounded rather… musical."

"You mean there was a time he talked normally?" Mana asked, having her own look of disbelief.

"What do you mean by that?" Atem demanded, feeling insulted. "I do talk normally!"

Mahad coughed.

"Not really, you kinda sing your words," Mana agreed with her teacher's non-word assessment.

"I what?"

"You're very sing-songy," she explained. "It should be weird, but it oddly suits you – your voice is pretty."

"… I sang myself to the point of changing my speech?" he asked.

"And voice," Mahad added.

"You mean he had a normal voice before?!"

"What the hell, my voice is plenty normal!" he sputtered. "I don't think singing can mutate my voice!"

"You voice is abnormally pretty! I told you that!"

"I couldn't have sang that much!"

"To be fair, you sang a lot," Mahad said, shrugging.

"Like a hundred times a day," Mana added.

"That is impossible, my throat would have died," he snorted, and he didn't know that much songs to sing a hundred of them in one day. "And singing wouldn't drastically change my voice, which is **normal** by the way."

… did he know more than a hundred songs?

(he did once live in a time where Spotify existed)

"It felt like a hundred times a day," Mahad admitted.

"You sang a _lot_ ," Mana emphasized. "You once made a song about wanting to see a giant woman tearfully beautiful."

"And I do believe you once nullified a siren's hypnotic song with your humming," Mahad recalled. "It was that trip to Greece."

What? He had thought his soldiers were sea sick, not under a lure.

"My voice went from sing-song to having mystic properties," he groaned. "What is it? Make up your mind."

"Both," Mahad and Mana declared.

"What."

"Definitely both," Mana said.

"Both sounds right," Mahad agreed.

He was so done with this, he'll just accept it for now. It seemed easier.

"Ugh, Ra, what am I? The music version of Saitama?" Atem rolled his eyes. "At least I didn't go bald or something."

His friends looked hilariously horrified at that thought.

* * *

 _AN: And done! I've imagined OC!Atem to have a more musical voice than canon, way before this chapter was written. It's more to do with preferences than any skills they have. Canon Atem is someone who I imagine was more into playing games to relax, or doing sports that time (horseback, hunting, archery, etc...). While OC!Atem prefers connecting with his past life when he de-stresses, such as binge reading or writing or even singing. Not that he doesn't like games, it's just not his first go-to when he wants to relax - it reminds him too much of canon._

 _Anyways, notes!_

 _Songs mentioned: Giant Woman from Steven Universe, Disney songs in general._

 _Saitama - from One Punch Man, a man who became incredibly strong, fast, and invulnerable by doing a 100-everything workout everyday. 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, etc... to the point that he became bald._

 _Musical sheets - I googled and Ancient Egyptian musical sheets look like colorful line of circles, I think? And the one Atem was writing is the one we're familiar with, with the ABCDEFG and the flats and sharps and whatnot._

 _If anyone reads Play, they'd notice that I tend to make OC!Yami's voice his most noticeable feature (besides the eyes and mannerisms). This is why._


	5. It's A Merry-Go-Round Indeed

_AN: This escalated, I did not expect this outcome. This has not been proofread but ohwell, will get to that again later when I have some sleep._

* * *

There were times that his prince would sing songs that had no words. He would start with a soft, low hum, which would crescendo into long soulful vowels. There were no sentences, no grammar, no meaning to his gibberish beyond the rhythm and tones he created.

The prince sang in a slow and lazy beat, voice going up and down gently. It was like he was serenading the wind, asking it softly to dance with him. And with the warm breeze hitting their faces, it felt like the wind was answering to the prince's request.

Mahad imagined the wind doing the steps and spins his prince often did during spars. The waltz, as he called it, was a dance often done with a partner.

He had thought his prince looked like he was dancing when fighting, but he didn't realize it was literal until he found him singing and dancing that one time. It looked incredibly similar to how he dodged and pranced around his opponent, yet different as well. There was none of the brutal force in his arms and legs, his face was not set in grim determination, and his body lacked the violent aura he often exuded.

If the magician were honest, these were one of the few instances that he was glad for his prince's bashfulness when it came to dealing with large groups of people. The young king could do fine in high stakes meetings, going toe-to-toe with groups of men and women who wanted power and wealth. Politics had been something he was taught and trained to do after all. But when it came to social gatherings, to celebrations and festivals, he let his priests do most of the work. Too nervous to give a long speech, much less do anything like singing and dancing.

It was a selfish thing to be happy about, but Mahad did not want to share these moments with others – besides Mana. He remembered the gradual ascendance of his voice from mundane to musical. Perhaps his prince was right about his self-assessment, there were people who had better voices than him. He had heard sweeter voices from women, richer voices from men.

It didn't make his friend's singing any less lovely though. There was a kind of rawness in it that made it beautiful. The prince's singing went beyond a simple way of entertainment. It lacked the solemnity of the religious hymns often sung in temples, but that was the closest thing Mahad could think of. The songs were important to his prince, us much as his stories and quirks.

And really, when your voice could nullify hypnosis, should it matter if it's neither the sweetest nor the richest in the kingdom?

The song began to sound playful, the rhythm more upbeat and the tune sparked with mischief. His prince began to sing more loudly, lost in whatever music he thought up in his wonderful mind. Despite the lyrics, if one could call it that, being absolutely nonsensical, there was no hitch or slip in his voice. No hesitation or perceived aloofness (which was actually just his shyness), he was not silent. So unlike his usual self when he was around company that wasn't his priests.

There were more jumps in pitch, like his voice was dancing as well – energetic and lively. Then it dipped back into its serene tune, his prince humming. High and low, low and high, high and higher. It then escalated into a faster pace, it was nothing like the snappy beat from before. The gentle warm breeze became a crushing whirlwind. Fast and slow, high and low.

Mahad wondered what this song was called, if it ever had a name.

" _Merry-Go-Round of Life."_

Mahad blinked, and Atem smiled in amusement. "The piece I was trying to sing," the king said. "It's called _Merry-Go-Round of Life._ "

" _Merry-Go-Round?"_ he frowned at the unfamiliar term.

"It's a ride, it functions more like a toy though," Atem explained, using his pointer finger to draw an imaginary circle. "There are… seats on a circular platform where people sit, and then the disc spins around while the seats bob up and down."

"That sounds," very strange. "Dizzying."

"It's fun, and that's what matters," Atem shrugged. "I bet Mana would love it."

Mahad hoped she never encountered one.

"So, are you feeling better?" Atem asked, lying on the ground and basking under the shade of the tree.

"My lord?"

"You've been on edge the whole day," the king pointed out. "I thought dragging you out of work would help, all work and no play makes Jack a crazy axe-murderer, y'know?"

"I'll endeavor to remember that," Mahad sighed, leaning against the tree trunk. "There's no need to worry," he assured. "I'm fine."

"You're my friend, I'll always worry about you," Atem refuted. "And it's no hardship for me to relax and hum random tunes, I know it calms you—no idea why though."

Because I know how cripplingly shy you are in performing and it's amazing how much you let go for my sake, is what Mahad thinks but doesn't say. "You have a pretty voice," and that was true as well.

"You taking speech lessons from Mana?" his prince snorted, rolling his eyes, the cavalier attitude doing nothing to lessen the red staining his cheeks.

"Perhaps I should take lessons from you instead, considering how lovely you sound most of the time," Mahad said a matter-of-factly.

"You-you-! You can't say things like that so casually!" his prince shot up, face completely red now. "What the hell! How come you never use double entendre when in my court?!"

"It's inappropriate," he replied. "Also _pot meet kettle,_ or are we ignoring Seth now?"

"I'm the king, I can get away with that."

Mahad chuckled. "And I know how much it hurt you when I tried to strictly treat you as such," he saw Atem stiffen and said, "After that fight, I promised I would treat you as my p—friend outside our duties."

"You never flirted with me before."

"You also did not go through puberty before," he pointed out. "You now have a low voice, lack chubby cheeks, and have a bit of height."

"Ah," Atem supposed it would be creepier to flirt with a child than a teenager. "Well, whatever, it's still…" he crossed his arms and looked away. "It's… ugh, look, with Seth? We both know we're joking," he said, biting his lip. "But with you? You always sound genuine," he combed through his hair. "I need—I need to know, is it just playful banter?"

Silence.

"It need not be," Mahad said gently. "I never lie when I compliment you, my lord. You always see yourself so harshly," he tilted his head. Like now, he thought sadly. You suspect what this is, but you can't bring yourself to believe it.

Atem sucked his breath. "… And if I don't," he looked up. "Reciprocate? What then?"

"Then we're still friends, that never changed," Mahad explained calmly, a little endeared on how clueless his prince was with this emotional aspect. He had always been mature for his age, but he supposed he still had some innocence in certain areas. "Love is love, and perhaps it changed over time—but it would never change the fact that you are dear to me."

"Love is love," his prince repeated, dubious.

"Two people can love each other differently," Mahad pointed out. "A mother gives her child parental love, but you don't expect the child to give the same kind back," he reached out and held his prince's hand, ignoring the way he stiffened again. "And even I'm still exploring, my prince. I only liked flirting because seeing you flail and blush is," adorable. "Amusing."

"Sadist."

" _Pot meet kettle."_

"Yes, well," Atem huffed, and Mahad smiled as the frightened look in his wine-red eyes were abated. "I guess we make quite a team," he let out a shaky laugh. "So it really doesn't matter if I don't-?"

"No, my prince."

"But what if you don't-?"

"Then I still love you," Mahad said plainly. "I always did. Or do you think I befriend people I abhor?"

More silence.

"Love is love, huh?" Atem murmured. "That makes sense."

"Of course it makes sense," Mahad smiled. "I care about you, I want you safe and happy, and you're important to me," he gripped the smaller hand a little firmly. "I don't need to be a lover to do that, I already do. And so do you."

* * *

 _AN: And that's it! Now back to never showing things like this again and only getting smol hints! Who knows, it might change._

 _I'm such a nice author!_

 _Some notes!_

 _ **Merry-Go-Round of Life** is the main theme of Howl's Moving Castle._

 _ **The all work and no play** is actually a reference to The Shining._

 _Atem's voice is literally magical._

 _In general, I'm not planning to put that much romance in my stories unless it comes to me. In fact, the last part is mostly about their friendship, not their possible romantic interests. Mahad never planned to confess, happy with being friends, he genuinely flirts for the hell of it because tomato friend is cute friend. Atem didn't jump for the opportunity, despite having a crush on him (there were clues in Rewind), more scared about hurting his friend if it only remained as a crush._


	6. The Power of Youth

_AN: I figured that I should add more interactions with the other priests, besides Mahad._

* * *

"Upper right, on the fourth shelf."

Isis turned to the sound of the voice, finding a young boy looking up at her curiously. He had strange hair, a blend of red, black, and yellow and all of it spiking outwards in a stylish kind of mess. She wondered if it was a wig. Wide curious eyes stared up at her, the color of his irises reminding her of wine. Despite the odd quirks of his appearance, he was a cute child. With his small slim stature, delicate looking face, and long lashes (how was that not kohl?), she would have thought him a girl. It was only his clothes that indicated he was not.

"The scroll you're looking for," he reiterated, his voice high and musical. "The one about the different poisons and venoms, correct? It's on your upper right, fourth shelf. The one with a red string sticking out."

She looked up and indeed there was a scroll on the far end of the fourth shelf, with a bright red string peeking out of its curl. She looked down to where she was, standing on a ladder—several feet above the floor. She looked back to the scroll and mentally calculated the distance and sighed, it was too far to reach, and she was too high up to nudge the ladder safely.

The boy winced, violet red eyes looking at the girl in sympathy. "Would you like help? I can move the ladder," he offered, holding up his hand and letting it glow red with his energy. "It's not that far that I can carry it."

'A magician,' she thought, raising her eyebrows as she detected the faint traces of his magical signature. 'Or an apprentice, at least. And he must be good, if he's confident enough to use his magic in such a mundane way.'

"If it's not a bother," she replied, and she gripped the rails hard as the ladder began to float slowly towards the right side of the shelf. Once the ladder landed, she let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "Thank you."

"It's no problem," he smiled. "I do it to myself whenever I'm here, it feels nice to use it to help others."

"Do it to-?" she widened her eyes. Levitation may not be the most advanced, but nearly all the spells she knew could drain a person's reserves if used several times. For a young boy to admit carrying something as heavy as himself—and if she inferred correctly, something he did often—he must have large reserves for his age. And with the level of control he did (she expected a jittery ascent, not a smooth and quick one), then- "You must do very well in the academy."

He reminded her of another student in the academy, one who was a summer older than her.

"The aca-? Oh, no, no! I'm not a student!" he laughed, scratching his head. His cheeks were red. "My teachers only taught me the basics, it's my friend who teaches me a little bit when he has time."

"Your friend?"

"Mn, he studies in the academy, one of the top students too," he said proudly. Then his eyes flickered with something that was achingly familiar to her. "I just practice when I have time, I've never studied in the academy. Or in temples for that matter."

But he wanted to, Isis concluded, seeing the same bitterness and resignation that she saw in herself. "You can't learn, then?"

With the ease he used his spell, he must either be a quick-learner or a hard-worker. It seemed such a waste, especially now that she was closer and she could detect that his magic was above the normal level of children his age. Young, skillful, and powerful. He would have been a dream student to teach.

"It's more of I have too much to learn," he sighed. "What with-… well, let's just say advance magic is not in my family's line of work."

"I see," she murmured. So it was more he was burdened with obligation, rather than burdened with his physical limits. How sad, she had thought that people with actual magic potential could pursue whatever branch they wished—yet here is one who couldn't even pursue the prerequisites of formal magic education.

She found him gaping at her in bewilderment. "Is something the matter?"

"You really don't—nevermind," he chuckled, shaking his head. "This is rather refreshing, so I'll milk this for all its worth."

Isis thought that was a very strange thing to say.

"You had this knowing look when I said I'm not in the academy," he mentioned, cocking his head. "You don't like healing, then?"

"I do," she answered, glancing at the stack of books and scrolls she had gathered on the table. "Healing takes a lot of skill and knowledge, and it is something I want to do. But my teachers and family want me to do something else."

"Which is…?"

"Divination," she pursed her lips.

"That's… a big leap from healing," he said, blinking owlishly. "Do you hate that then?"

"Divination and healing are both my interests," she looked down at the scroll she had. "I have an innate talent in divination, and I have no problem studying the medicinal herbs, remedies, and spells."

"So," he started, looking confused. "What's the problem then? You obviously like healing, and divination's not a hardship. And I'm sure you're studying in the academy, given what you just said," he crossed his arms, thinking. Isis suspected it was a little intimidating for others, but she just found it endearing. He was very intuitive and observant for his age.

"I do not have magic."

"… But you're in the academy," he pointed out, more baffled than before.

"I do not have enough magic," she reiterated, looking away. Healing was a branch that required very little magic, much like illusions. The only one branch that needed even less magic was divination. It was embarrassing, but she was the weakest in her class. No, in her generation at the academy. "Not enough to become a full-fledged healer," not enough to be a priestess, something she dreamed to be. "But I have enough to be fortune teller."

"But that's not what you want," he said softly. "Not really."

"Yes, well neither of us can get what we fully want, can we?" she stated acerbically, finding a desk, taking a seat, and opening the scroll. "We take what we can and make do."

She began to read with fervor.

The boy fidgeted, looking at her and fiddling with his shenti.

"… I have another friend, she's like a little sister to me," he said quietly. "She likes doing magic too, but a lot of people often discourage the kinds she tries to learn."

Isis sighed, putting down the scroll. She'll take the bait. "Which is?"

"Combat, incredibly active combat," he stated, smiling fondly. "Attack spells, jinxes, curses, the works," he shook his head. "She's good in what she does, but not many agree."

She had an idea on why. "Many women spellcasters are suited for support and defense because their spiritual awareness is more heightened than men," and because they were often physically and magically weaker.

"Mm," he agreed. "Many is the keyword here, not all. Granted, in terms of gender equality, our country fares better than most. We don't even have to be like Sparta to give women plenty of freedom. Divorce, land ownership, jobs… but stereotypes are very commonplace."

"A child should not have that large of a vocabulary," Isis observed.

"I read a lot," he shrugged. "Also, you just noticed that now?"

"No, I just felt like pointing it out, continue."

"Right, well she gets frustrated on that," he made a vague gesture. "Girl thing. And my friend, the one in the academy, tries to help because he studies combat magic and fully supports her… but sometimes he doesn't get it," he sighed. "He means well, but he's-"

A man, a magician, physically and magically fit, probably has a family who would support whatever he wanted to do, were the unsaid words.

"It's horrible, and we don't tell him, but sometimes we're jealous of what he can do," he confessed, rubbing his arms. "It doesn't last long, and I don't think she understands what she feels when it happens. She usually just has tantrums, and I find that better than seeing her cry and give up."

Isis was silent.

"… I tell her stories," he said quietly. "There aren't many female magical warriors for her to look up to, so I make her ones."

She raised her eyebrows. "And I suppose you want to tell me one?" she surmised.

"It would be hypocritical of me to not encourage the message I'm giving to my friend."

"That would be?"

He smiled, and it was an old and tired smile. Isis found it did not suit him. "That no person is meant for one fate," he stated. "Would you listen to my story? It's about a boy who wished to be a magical warrior, but people said he couldn't."

"Why is that?"

"Because his magic couldn't flow properly, and therefore he couldn't perform the simplest of spells," he answered, taking a seat next to her. "His name was Lee, and he lived in a village hidden under the leaves."

Isis found that the boy's voice was suited for storytelling. Calm and soothing, the words like gentle waves on her skin. Without realizing it, she began listening.

Listening to a young boy who had only wanted to help her get a scroll.

* * *

"My lord!" she called out, walking towards her pharaoh.

"Ah, Isis, how is your new position so far?" he asked, voice low but still as musical as she remembered. "I know you're busy with your duties as an item wielder, but I feel more confident having you in charge of the healers."

"It has been good, my lord," she replied easily, understating the happiness she felt at being, not just a high priestess and oracle, but also a healer. And her king has basically given her the title of _chief healer._

"I was just looking for you," he admitted sheepishly. "Mahad needs some of your poultice."

She frowned. "Again?" that was the fourth time this week, what was that magician up to?

Her king shrugged helplessly. "Mana had to get her penchant for explosions from _somewhere_."

That explained so much, and yet so little. She applauded her king for having to deal with that since childhood. "I'll get a servant to deliver it to him," she sighed. Then she remembered why she was looking for him. "My lord, there is something I have to give you."

He blinked, tilting his head like a curious kitten. Isis still found this man's honest actions endearing, even after all these years (and even after discovering that she had been with the prince of all people). With his physique and voice, there was no mistake that he was a man. But his features were still as delicate and beautiful as years ago, especially the shape of his eyes and face. "What is it?"

She smiled, bringing something out from her sling bag and pinning it on her king's cape.

He looked down on what she put and stiffened.

"Isis, what-?"

"When you told me the story, of that boy named Lee who couldn't do magic," she murmured. "When you were finished, what happened next?"

"… That was you?" he asked, looking at her with disbelief. "But you were so," he struggled to find words to describe the younger Isis. The quiet, surly girl with a messy bobcut who had glared at the books, and everything else, with such anger. She may have talked to him in a kind tone that time, but he suspected that was more because he had been a child. She could have given Seth a run for his money, if monetary exchange existed during this era.

The Isis now was gentle and patient, and could deal with the antics of his priests with poise and grace.

"You were really salty," he declared lamely.

Her lips quirked at that, it was nice to know that he hadn't changed his odd figures of speech. "What happened next, my lord?"

"You scared me into following you," he answered, furrowing his brow. "Then you scared me into answering papers and doing some spells."

She wondered if it was normal for a king to be so brutally honest with his fears. "Those were tests, my lord." She fixed up the cape, smoothing out the creases around the trinket.

"I figured that," the unsaid 'And?' was loud and clear.

"They were the mock graduation exams for the academy, my lord," she explained, finally done with attaching the medal. She patted the jeweled brooch with pride. "You passed with, what was it you said? Flying pigments?"

"Flying colors," he corrected, looking at the accessory with a quiet sort of disbelieving wonder. It was rather large, only a little smaller than his curled fist. He knew what it was, how could he not? Mahad had one in his room, and Mana got hers months ago. The magic academy's mark of mastery, a simple white gem with a bronze metal frame surrounding it. The mark would change appearance the moment a student wears it during the graduation ceremony, colors and features shifting and mutating to reflect their masters' teachings and their own learnings. "Isis, I'm flattered you'd think I'm good enough for this. But maybe you should return it? This won't work, I was never formally train-"

Red was bleeding into the white gem, looking more like crystallized blood. The bronze frame became lighter, taking in a more golden hue. Atem sucked his breath as silver lines begun to etch the dark red surface of the stone, slowly revealing a shape.

A silver star (at least, a star in his point of view), one just like Mahad's. One just like Mana's. The symbol that showed where he learned his magic from. Mahad learned from his father. Mana learned from Mahad. And he-

"This-… I," he hitched. "But I never-"

"It makes sense," she mused, because of course that boy's friend had to be Mahad, the best magician the academy has ever had. Of course they would be jealous of him, even just a little (who hasn't?). And of course the king's version of 'He taught me a little bit' would actually be 'He crammed into me the whole curriculum'. Typical clueless geniuses. "The way you cast spells is familiar, not as much as Mana's, but it's still there."

"… Why?" he whispered, fiddling with the mark (his mark, it was so surreal). "This must have took a lot of convincing, you didn't even _know_ me that time. Why go through the effort?"

"That time, it was more for myself than you, my lord," Isis admitted. "After that tale, I was still doubtful. It was just a whim, but I made a gamble. If that boy could pass even half of the trials, then I would push through with studying healing—no matter what my teachers would say." She laughed. "And then you broke my expectations and passed all of it," all the while being absolutely confused with why he was doing this. Granted, she had seen better, but considering this was a boy with no proper training—it was impressive. "How could I stop with something like that?"

She wondered what would have happened if she hadn't met the king that time. Perhaps she could have been a priestess, maybe even excel enough to be a high priestess. Perhaps she could have done healing, after she finally was able to summon her ka. Perhaps she could have been an oracle, she was always good with divination. But would she have been a master healer? One good enough to commander the palace healers and medics? One her king trusted enough to be in charge of everything related to medicine?

She doubted it.

"My apologies that it took this long to give it to you, my lord," she smiled wryly. "You can be hard to find when you don't want to be found."

"I go to the library for peace and quiet," he said idly, still looking at the mark. "I would never have it if I announced who I was."

That was true. "This is my gratitude, my lord," she knelt down and bowed. "For giving me the courage to pursue what I want."

"Oh," he blushed, unused to someone bowing to him for a reason besides showing respect to the pharaoh. "I was just—I just wanted to cheer you up, that was all," he scratched his head. "You were the one who worked hard, Isis."

"I had the power of youth to help me," she said, standing up.

"Please never say anything like that," he deadpanned. "Ever again, pharaoh's orders."

"As you wish," and because she couldn't help it. "Though that is such an unyouthful thing to say, my lord."

Her king replied by turning away and leaving with a dignified strut, she covered her mouth to muffle the soft laughter escaping from her lips.

She didn't see the huge grin he was wearing as he walked.

* * *

 _AN: And tis done! If anyone's wondering, this is a backstory on one of Rewind!Atem's accessories in his pharaoh outfit I drew in Tumblr. He uses a kind of pin to clip his cape in place, and it looks similar to DMG's gem she has in the middle of her chest. Originally it was supposed to be that he got it as a gift from Mana, but like most of my stories… this kinda mutated beyond my expectations._

 _Anyways! Some notes!_

 _ **Lee**_ _– from Naruto._

 _ **The mark**_ _– a brain fart that popped up. I actually got the idea from a fanfic series called Inheritance of Cards and Demons, which is a Cardcaptor Sakura and Ao no Exorcist crossover fanfic. One chapter went on about the theory of magic circles (the pretty circles that appear under Sakura, Eriol, Clow, etc… when they use magic), that there are parts of a person's circle they inherited from their master, and parts that are their own. Like how Sakura's circle changes when she used star magic, but it still has parts of Clow's original circle. The mark is a simplified version of that, only showing the symbol of their master and the colors and traits of their own magic. Kinda like showing a magic genetic tree._

 _ **Academy?**_ _– not canon, just my own thing. I've researched a bit, and it doesn't seem much of a stretch that there'd be schools for magic (as temples were often places of learning). Admittedly I also got the inspiration from Magi and Harry Potter. In Magi, there is an academy where magicians can study—and since Magi's setting is more similar to Millennium World's, I decided to use that as a reference. It's a lot like an ancient fantasy version of college._

 _ **Why Atem not in academy? But magic?**_ _– but prince and future king duties. Atem really wants to, because hell yeah_ _ **magic**_ _. But he's also aware how much time he has to spend to study it, and he already has a lot in his plate like history, economics, politics, etiquette, and the like. He could opt not to study those, but he doesn't want to disappoint his father nor does he want to be an ignorant king in the future. He does use it like it's a normal thing (it's not, he's just surrounded by powerful priests and has two genius magicians as friends, and uses them as a frame of reference)._

 _Mahad adds to his education while his tutors show him basic spells. It started off as Atem asking his friend for help because he utterly sucked at magic (see Play for that story), and ended as just another way of bonding for them._

 _(again, see Play for this) Isis doesn't realize this, but Atem getting proof that he's good enough to graduate in a magic academy is a huge thing for him. He's known as a genius, but he credits that to being able to remember his past life. Math, sciences, reading, and whatnot is easier when you remember your previous education. Magic is the only thing that his past life never had, and when he found out that he had horrible control, it just verified that he's just a fake genius, and not all that smart. Someone hug this baby his self-esteem is too low._

 _ **Magic rules in this world?**_ _– Ehh, I'm borrowing from several fandoms to be honest. One is Naruto since the chakra system in canon is incredibly detailed compared to a lot of fictional fantasy worlds I know._

 _And now a bonus!_

* * *

Mahad continued to stare at his king's shoulder, not hearing a single word he was saying.

"I can't believe I'm saying this to you but," Atem snapped his fingers in front of his distracted friend's face. "My eyes are up here, Mahad."

He jerked, finally looking at the Atem's face. The king raised his eyebrow, lips quirked in a lopsided smile and eyes twinkling with amusement. "Back on _Earth_ yet, Mahad?" he asked.

The silence meant not really.

"That gem," Mahad finally said, looking at the blood red stone with the silver etchings of an eerily familiar symbol. "The mark, where did you-?"

"What mar—ah! I forgot about that, it's a long story," he laughed, and Mahad was surprised on how light and cheerful it sounded. "Isis gave it to me, as thanks for something I did long ago. Isn't it neat?"

"It's…" Mahad swallowed as the silver lines gleamed when his king shifted.

"I won't get in trouble for keeping this, will I?" he wondered, touching the mark. "I was never a student, and don't amulets have symbolisms and rituals?" he frowned. "Maybe I should ask Isis again to return it, I'm happy enough with knowing I passed."

"No!"

Atem jerked at the sudden exclamation.

"No," Mahad repeated calmly, touching the mark. He could feel the cool magic inside the red stone. "The mark wouldn't change unless it found you unworthy. It… it suits you."

"Really?" he was skeptic about that, the mark did look a little out of place—especially with the silver star. It clashed horribly with his violet cape, maybe he could get a white one instead? Those thin, see-through ones women like to wear? Or something like Isis' cape? It would be lighter.

"You look very striking with it, my prince," Mahad assured him. It was true, the pharaoh was not fond with wearing much gold or silver. So any jewelry he saw fit to wear would often pop.

"You just like the fact that I'm wearing your symbol," he joked. Even Mana didn't wear her mark.

This time, silence did not mean not really.

"We were discussing about the expansion of the temple, my lord," Mahad reminded.

"You are horrible in changing the subject," Atem declared pleasantly. "You _are_ happy that I'm wearing your symbol, aren't you?"

"It is not my symbol, it is my father's," Mahad corrected primly. "As he taught me-"

"Mahu didn't teach me, you did," the king pointed out, amused at this discovery. "Well, if it's like that, then I'm definitely wearing this as much as possible."

Mahad did not sputter, though it was a near thing. "If that is what you wish, my lord."

"Think of it as thanks," Atem said, giving him a bashful smile. "Teacher," he murmured, pink dusted his cheeks.

The magician had never been grateful for the amount of self-control he had attained from years of magic discipline.

"Oh, I should show Mana this later!" Atem clapped his hands excitedly. "We could compare marks!"

"You are-" unbelievable, impossible, adorable. "-full of surprises, my prince."

"It's not like I wanted to be conned to a graduation!"

* * *

 _AN: This is before Atem suspected of Mahad's feelings._


	7. Spirited Away pt 1

_AN: So I was tempted to do a what if canon characters meet Rewind!Atem, because YGO has always had people going through other dimensions and worlds. So why not?_

* * *

He stares at the little boy, his companion's explanation bouncing off his ears.

"He's not listening," the little boy says, eyes looking up at him with a mixture of curiosity, shock, and _knowing._ A familiar shade of red violet that he didn't think he'd see for a long time (or ever). "He's doing the thing where he pretends he's listening, all serious and grim-faced, and then he'll probably," the boy twirls his finger near his temple, a mockery of how memory extractions were done a long time ago, "get back to it later."

Well, he wasn't wrong. But not many people know that, not many who were alive that is. Only his student was familiar enough with his body language to know when he was actually serious or not.

"Master," said student says, elbowing him. "This isn't the time to wander off, you should listen to Lady Charity's story," she scolds, though he knows she's as unnerved by the boy's appearance too.

The boy mumbles something, glancing at his student and then back to him. Then he looks down and fiddles with the frayed sweater he was wearing, mumbling again.

He suspects that the boy didn't want anyone to hear, perhaps his long stay in this world has made him use that language as a default when he wanted secrecy. Thinking nobody was fluent with it. But he knew, had once spoke it by heart, and something in him cracked as that familiar voice spoke in a familiar language.

" _They look like Mana and Mahad… I want to go home, I miss them."_

The way his student twitched, she must have heard too.

"Really now, Dark," Charity says in an unamused tone, the feathers on her wings poofing up in annoyance. "The human child has been traversing the realm for weeks looking for a way home, the least you can do is try and listen. You're one of the most knowledgeable and experienced spellcasters in the world, I'd hoped you'd have an insight on his problem. The human world connected to our realm isn't his."

"Different, more… metallic," the boy supplies. "Smokier," he wrinkles his nose. His student giggles at that and he has to smile too, because yes, pollution in the human world is one of the things that is so different from the one he used to know.

He frowns and ponders how the (familiar) boy came here. Time travel? He doesn't remember his prince going through another world, he would have blabbed about his adventure when he had a chance, so this is probably an alternate timeline. One where his prince found a way to go through a spirit realm by accident, because of course he would. It was a universal constant that the royal family did not do things in average standards.

(really, it explained a lot about Seth)

"I know that look too and I feel like pointing out," the boy puffs out, looking adorably indignant. "That as a man who wears all violet armor and a cute swirly pointy hat and who was—just a minute ago—jumping through hoops of light that ported you in random places in the air, you have no right to criticize my… my unintentional chaos magnet."

He's really not used to having more than one person figuring out what he was thinking. "That is one way to describe it," he says.

The boy pouts.

"What would you describe master's?" His student asks, tone amused. Despite her carefree aura, he could see the way she was looking at the boy with a kind of desperation he only saw when she first entered this realm and found him. When she jokingly asked to be his student again, gripping his arm so tightly (as if afraid he would disappear again).

She was drinking in every detail of the boy. From the soft tips of his red-to-black spikes, to the blond fringes framing his small face, to his small golden crown, to the dark skin decorated with a few cartoonish Dark Magician bandaids (and they both wonder if that was intentional), to the muddied sneakers that have seen better days. He looked more like a little boy who ran away than a prince from a distant land (and time).

"Intentional chaos magnet." Was the immediate answer.

She laughs, bright and airy. The boy gives a tentative smile, shoulders relaxing and the fidgeting on his fingers easing a little. He looks up at the woman who had brought him here, considers her disheveled hair, haggard face, and dirty wings, and purses his lips. "Maybe you should go home, Ms. Charity? I can tell them myself."

"I'm not comfortable leaving you alone," Charity says, giving him a reproachful look. "You shouldn't have been wandering by yourself all this time."

"Will they hurt me?" He asks, like it's something he didn't consider but checks anyways, because it could be a possibility. He looks at them again, looking at their staffs and armor with hidden caution.

It stings.

"No," he denies firmly. Charity widens her eyes at the vehemence in his voice, his student gives him a knowing look, and the boy…

The boy nods. "Okay then," he says. "You should go home and rest, I'll be fine here."

"Something could-"

"They'll protect me," he insists. "And you can't do much if you're tired."

Ah, it was that tone. The one that could make the most stubborn of men do whatever he asked. The no-nonsense, charismatic, and forceful tone of his king. It was less firm but more melodic, another difference with this prince, yet the intent was similar all the same. To make people listen, to make them do what they ask-slash-order. And not even the protective angel that was Graceful Charity was immune to it.

"Alright," she sighs, relenting. She turns to him and gives him a hard stare, very reminiscent to her cousin's. It doesn't help that her wings aren't in their usual pristine white condition. "He's been through enough, so if he's gone tomorrow – then the only acceptable reason is that he safely returned home. Nothing less than that, do we have an understanding, Mr. Ultimate Wizard?"

Why did that sound like a challenge? "We do, Charity."

The boy snickers.

Charity nods, satisfied. She looks at the boy, her expression softening. "Do be careful now, alright? You always attract trouble without trying."

"You get used to it," the boy says flippantly. "And it's not like I wanted the taxi driver to be an illegal smuggler of magical pot," he tilts his head. "Literally. Prison is nicer here, at least. The goblin policeman gave me candy."

None of those statements comfort him.

Charity pats his head and walks towards the door, she gives one last Screw-This-Up-And-You-Will-Die-So-Badly-Not-Even-Monster-Reborn-Would-Help-You glare at him and leaves.

All who were left were two befuddled magicians and one nervous little boy.

"… So!" His student starts, clapping her hands cheerfully. "I'm hungry! Who wants food? I've got some leftover falafel sitting in the fridge that is begging to be eaten."

"What's falafel?" The boy asks timidly, fiddling with his sweater again. It is another difference this boy has with his prince, and he's not sure if it makes dealing with this situation easier or harder. He wonders if it's his upbringing that makes him this shy, or if travelling in this world alone has made him constantly wary around strangers.

He hopes it's the former. This world has as much bad as it has good, and many of the bad come in the form of traps from seemingly trustful individuals. He didn't want the boy to have experienced so much betrayal that a part of his nature changed.

"They're little balls of bean and pea goodness," his student says. "You'll love it for sure!"

The boy perks up at that, and he trots towards his student eagerly for the prospect of food. He follows suit, walking beside the boy as his student chatters endlessly about how they got the falafel. Overly exaggerated and inaccurate, but it makes the boy relax again.

If only the same could be said for himself.


	8. Neither A Knight Nor In Shining Armor

_AN: Kidnapping and drugging a minor ahead. And violence, implied violence anyways. And probably typos._

* * *

" _You look really mad,"_ he said, tilting his head. He then fell down, losing balance as he tilted to the right a bit too much. He giggled, not feeling the pain as he slammed onto the cold hard floor. It was a refreshing thing actually, after spending days of feeling almost numb and fuzzy. _"We should find a—a,"_ what was it called? Oh, right. _"A river or something, to wash yourself."_

Mahad said nothing, swiftly walking towards him and breaking the manacles on him with glowing violet hands. He then went to breaking the ones on his ankles.

" _Tried breaking them myself,"_ he commented, blinking at his freed limbs. His eyes were almost black, the only hint of his actual eye color were the thin wisps of red-violet on the edges of his iris. _"But they gave me something—feel weird, kinda like that time I got my tooth pulled and,"_ he furrowed his brow, trying and failing to get up. His arms felt like overcooked noodles. _"Ah, technically I haven't? Or will? Reincarnation is weeeird,"_ He blinked some more as strong arms lift him up and secure him in a princess carry—or would it be prince carry? He giggled again. _"Let's get you washed, yeah? When we get home, I mean. Red doesn't really suit you."_

His friend was still silent, carrying him out of the room he was held in. Wherever they were in—he didn't know, his captors made sure he was either unconscious or not exactly lucid during the whole trip—was completely silent, devoid of any sound besides the wind and Mahad's strong and swift steps.

During moments like this, where Mahad was definitely Not Okay, he would sing something. Or hum at least. It was one of the few ways to calm Mahad when he was stressed or worried or tense. He observed the neutral, almost blank, expression on the magician's face. Anger is something he rarely saw, and this kind of anger was something entirely new to him.

Like an iceberg. Hard, cold, and unmoveable in the frigid ocean. Enough to make you shiver, and perhaps give you frostbite if you stayed too near for too long. One look at the tip and a person would think "Hm, that's cold and sharp—best avoid it."

Except, in actuality, it was worse than it seemed. The tip showed only a fraction of an iceberg, hence why it was called a tip—he surmised—and looking deeper, the iceberg was more intimidating than one would expect. Harder, colder, deeper. Could make you sink and drown if one was careless enough to bump into it.

And judging from the warm energy he felt, the lingering scent of grapes and incense on his nose, the crackling violent sparks he saw on Mahad's skin—he suspected that the blank-faced anger was deeper than he saw.

He'd forgotten how much of a powerhouse Mahad was, that it was only his almost perfect control that made it seem his magic wasn't all that great and impressive.

It wasn't that bad, was it? Granted, kidnapping was bad, but he didn't think it merited this level of cold fury. He wasn't given the royalty treatment (he should know), and while he knows he's seen better days, he couldn't look that bad.

A growl and a bunch of pots nearby exploding from bursts of magic refuted his statement. Huh, had he said that out loud?

"Yes," Mahad said, and if he had been talking to anyone else, he probably would have snarled at them. Except Mana.

" _Yes to me looking bad or yes to me saying it out loud?"_ He wondered.

"To both," was Mahad's short reply. They were outside now, somewhere, far from home. He didn't know if they were near Egypt or any of the neighbouring countries, but he presumed they were still in the same continent—at least. What with the desert and the dry climate.

And the stars.

" _Huh, I can still uhm—"_ he frowned, willing his brain to remember the thing we was trying to say. He knew that he knew the word, he just couldn't remember it in English. _"The thing, with the—uh..."_ He knew it in Egyptian, but the English term seemed to slip away from his muddled head. Why was it so hard to remember words a lot? Not just in his drugged state, mind you. You would think knowing a lot of languages would make you more verbose and eloquent. The smooth transition of one language to the next like overabundant honey.

But in all honesty, it was more like you have too many ways to describe a thing and too many rules to describe it even more and you wish you could just dump it all in one go and it would be okay. It was less like honey and more like dumping five kinds of cereal in milk and eating the whole thing with a large gulp and crunch.

Wait, why was he trying to say complete full sentences in _English_ of all things?

Wait, Mahad knew both languages—why should he care if he crushes and mixes them carelessly in a metaphorical blender?

Wait, he was getting off-topic.

"Star navigation," he chirped, he tried to hit his palm with his other hand to express his a-ha moment, but his hands sadly missed. "I can still do that!" The fact that he could see the stars and pinpoint which could kind of, sort of, guess a general area on where they should go is impressive in itself. "I am sooooooo," he paused, tilting his head as he went through words. Mahad wasn't fluent with that one. Or that one. Or that one. Wasn't he just starting on Greek?

Ugggh, why do people limit themselves to one language and stick with it for a long time? To hell with it, he'll stick with English and Egyptian. They both start with "E" so it's easier to remember. Well, no. Egyptian in Egyptian doesn't start with "E", there's not even a letter that's called "E" in the written language. It's not even called Egyptian. He's just thinking in English. Most of the time. So many "E"s.

" _Baked,"_ he ended decisively. "Wait, you don't know that," he frowned. " _Or at least,_ not as clear as I usually am," he placed his head on Mahad's shoulder. _"I don't think I've been sober for_ daaaays."

Usually, he doesn't like that feeling. Of his mind being fuzzy. He remembered, vaguely, that the first days had been hellish. He already had a deep hatred (fear) of alcohol, the scent of any wine or beer making him slightly green. Getting tipsy wasn't a great experience either, he didn't like the feeling—it made him remember her death. That being inebriated could kill someone.

Getting high wasn't any better, his captors had done it so he'd be too unfocused to do magic. Alcohol wasn't as quick and effective compared to other substances after all. He remembered fighting and crying and puking and fighting some more. Remembered his heart beating fast and his breathing turning into shallow gasps, and not because of the potion they forcefed him.

He wondered how much he took, that he doesn't seem to care anymore. That the flashbacks of her death were far and inbetween. That he wasn't unnerved at the crimson soaking on Mahad's robes and staining his skin. That all he did was raise his eyebrow as Mahad's face of shock and horror quickly turned into something more terrifying. Fierce, feral, _dark._

" _Twenty-five hundred doesn't do you justice,"_ he murmured.

He felt fingers carding through his hair, and he closed his eyes. He knows, that when he is in the right state of mind, that he'll find a way to become stronger. To become less helpless. Less weak. He fought back, but it wasn't enough.

He had to be stronger, he needed to be stronger. If he couldn't beat normal human beings, what more a powerful malicious monster?

But until then, he'd appreciate this moment of awesomeness that was his friend.

" _My magician in dark robes,"_ he cooed, hugging the man with the best of his ability. And by best, it was more of arms flopping around, trying to aim at his shoulders. _"_ My _seven-star badass,_ what would I do without you? _"_

The preteen successfully wrapped his arms around Mahad after the fifth try.


End file.
